


Run Me Like a River

by betts



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathing/Washing, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Desperation, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Humiliation, Light Sadism, Omorashi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Punishment, Rape/Non-con Elements, Somnophilia, Underage Drinking, WTFfic, Watersports, erotic crying, god has forsaken us
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 06:54:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16012613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: There is no My Step-Daughter Is Trying to Seduce Me field guide, but if there were, the number-one rule would probably be, “Do not fuck your step-daughter.”And yet, Bellamy's patience is wearing thin.





	Run Me Like a River

**Author's Note:**

> I let a headcanon slip on tumblr that Bellamy is into watersports. The anons got hold of it and egged me on and now this mess exists and I have ignored all of my responsibilities.
> 
> For real-real yall. Heed the tags. Bellamy is not a good man in this fic. Bad things happen. Non-consensual pissplay is involved. There is no redeeming value to be had. That said, it is completely fictional. In reality, I obviously do not condone any of the behavior herein. Please do not come at me with torches and pitchforks, just be a bro and click away.
> 
> I didn't list this fic as underage because Clarke's age is not specified. I describe her as she is in canon. Bellamy is younger than Abby, older than Clarke.
> 
> Title from "River" by Bishop Briggs

Bellamy’s step-daughter is a fucking slut. She thinks he doesn’t notice when she comes home smelling like she just got fucked by the Cincinnati Reds. Hours after curfew, woozy and boozy, in clothes that would make a stripper blush. Abby has no idea. Abby takes her meds at nine on the dot and she’s passed out by ten, but Bellamy is more than happy to wait on the couch every night, two, three, four a.m. Whenever Princess decides to stumble in. 

He’s tried to punish her. Ground her, and she sneaks out. Take away her phone, she uses her laptop. Take away her laptop, she sneaks out. She’s too old for spanking, but god, he dreams about bending her over his knee, smacking her ass raw until she’s crying and writhing on his lap, his hand throbbing. He imagines switching to a belt, making it hurt. Half the time he thinks she’s just egging him on, pushing him until he breaks, does something stupid like shove his cock into her mouth. The other half he thinks she’s just in it for the game, to watch him squirm, believing he’s too good, too loyal to Abby. Won’t do anything about it.

She walks around the house naked, casual-as-you-please, sets up to watch TV with him by settling on the floor on her stomach, feet kicking in the air. Sometimes she gets on her knees and stretches, looks back at him and wiggles her hips a little, dares him to look at her little pink slit. Sometimes she drapes herself over the couch, her bare feet on his lap. Sometimes she plays with her tits mindlessly, a hand cupping her breast, idly teasing a nipple with her thumb until it peaks. Sucks on popsicles, lets them melt and drip between her tits. It would seem weird if Abby weren’t just as cavalier with her own nudity. They say they’ve always been that way, even when Jake was around. Abby tells Bellamy nudity isn’t fundamentally erotic, but he can’t help if his dick gets wet whenever his step-daughter’s tight tiny pussy is on full display.

Abby is at a conference for a few days and Clarke has gone off the deep-end. She’s been waking up at noon, pads into the kitchen and drinks the sludge left in the coffee pot. She’s always wearing one of his t-shirts, which is somehow worse than being naked. Always a dirty shirt, too, from the hamper. Covered in his sweat, dirt, streaks of motor oil. It swallows her whole, falls off her bare shoulder. She lounges on the couch with her coffee cup in hand, hair in a bun crooked and messy on the crown of her head. She should be hungover, she should always be hungover, but she never is. Always bright and bouncy, flushed cheeks and crystalline baby blues. And he’s always getting some work done, trying to concentrate, but she leans back and spreads her legs and touches herself. Right in front of him. Finger on her clit, pussy clean-shaven, lip bitten between her teeth. Lazy about it at first, sipping her coffee. He’s tried ignoring her, but then the little whimpers come, the panted breath, and she ditches the coffee to sneak two fingers inside herself. She demands to be seen, and so, seemingly against his will, he watches. Watches, but doesn’t touch. 

When she comes, she always says his name, the name she’s been calling him since the day he married her mom.  _ Daddy. _ She knows. She knows what that word fucking does to him.

It’s happened three times now. Three days in a row, her legs spread on the couch, in his t-shirt, fucking herself with her fingers, daring him to watch. Yesterday she got herself off by humping the arm of the couch, leaving a filthy stain on the upholstery which he had to clean.

And how is he supposed to react? His wife’s kid, brazen as hell, masturbating feet away. He acted shocked at first, even though he wasn’t. Then he got angry. He told her to get out of his sight. He threatened to tell Abby. But Clarke was undeterred. Sat there, smiling at him, working herself over. She knew he wouldn’t tell Abby; it’s against the rules of this fucked-up game they’re playing. Rules they both know but neither speak. 

There is no My Step-Daughter Is Trying to Seduce Me field guide, but if there were, the number-one rule would probably be, “Do not fuck your step-daughter.” And yet, Bellamy's patience is wearing thin. As days pass in Abby’s absence and Clarke gets increasingly under his skin, he can’t think of anything other than punishments. Things worse than bending her over the arm of the couch and sinking his cock into her before she even knows what's happening. That would be giving her what she wants. That would be losing the game. And he will not lose the game.

Tonight is the night, he’s decided. Tonight it ends. 

She drags herself in a little after one in the morning, surprisingly early and surprisingly drunk. When Abby is home, Clarke usually attempts a semblance of decorum, pretends she isn’t tipsy or high. Some nights she offers a two-fingered salute and goes straight to bed, but others, she sits beside him on the couch, smelling like sex and weed and liquor, Daddy-this, Daddy-that, vapid nonsense just to bother him. Cue him in on just how easy it would be to rip her panties off and bury his face in her cunt.

But tonight, she’s absolutely  _ wasted.  _ Sloppy white-girl wasted. 

Good. 

She nearly falls through the door, can’t manage to get her keys out of the lock. Outside, he hears her friend’s tires squeal away.

“Daddy, help,” she says pitifully.

He drops his book and gets up to help. Pulls the keys out of the lock and closes the door. She clutches his shirt in her fists and bears her weight on him as she tries to kick off her ugly spiked heels. He puts his hands on her waist to steady her and regrets it immediately. Her midriff is bare, skin fever-hot under his palms. She smells like vodka and cherries.

Once her shoes are off, he takes her face between his thumb and forefinger, forces her gaze up so she’s looking at him, but her focus is blurred and she blinks slowly. 

“Tired, princess?” he asks.

She pouts, shakes her head. Well, tries to, but she’s caught in his grip. “Nuh uh.”

“Good,” he says. “We’re gonna play a game tonight.”

“I like games.”

He lets go of her face, pats her cheek twice. “I know you do, sweetheart.”

“You’re being nice to me,” she says, poking the center of his chest. “I don’t like it when you’re nice to me.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s fake. Means Mom made you do something you don’t wanna do.”

He smiles at that. It’s true, hard not to grit his teeth when he asks her to  _ please _ put her goddamn dishes away,  _ please  _ go mow the lawn,  _ please  _ stop fucking masturbating in front of him. 

“I don’t trust you when you’re nice,” she adds.

“Honey,” he says, “you should never trust me.”

 

* * *

He shuffles a deck of cards. She watches his hands move, a little wrinkle in her brow as if it’s magic. He’s sitting on the couch and she’s on the floor on the opposite side of the coffee table. He poured her a big glass of ice water, and nods at it while he shuffles, tells her to drink up, she doesn’t want to wake up with a headache in the morning.

“You gonna tell Mom?” she asks. “That I’m — I’m drunk?”

He watches her throat as she guzzles the water down, little droplet trailing off her lip, down her chin. 

“Nah,” he says. “It’ll be our little secret.”

She gives him a suspicious look as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Her lipstick must have come off hours ago. Probably on some poor guy’s dick. The rest of her makeup is smudged, her hair limp. Must have been at a club. She looks like a fucking mess, disheveled jacket, low-cut top, short skirt he can’t quite see up for once. Black choker around her neck. 

“What’re we playing?” she asks.

“Poker.” He tosses a card to her side of the table, deals one for himself. 

“Strip poker?”

“Is there any other kind?”

“Yaaay.” She picks up her card and looks at it. “You never get naked with me.”

He tosses another card to her. “You don’t think that’s a little inappropriate?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” She picks up the second card and grins at him stupidly. “I see the way you look at me.”

“And how’s that?”

“Like you wanna fuck me.”

Another card. “Is that so?”

She nods emphatically. “Mhm. And I want you to fuck me.”

“The truth comes out.”

“Not a secret. Hasn’t been for a long time.”

“You really think I’d fuck my own daughter?”

She gives him a sharp glare, the first moment of complete lucidity since she got home. “I know you will.” Then she frowns at her cards. “What does it mean when they’re all red?”

 

* * *

Between hands, while Clarke is picking an item to remove (three rounds lost already), Bellamy gets up and refills Clarke’s water glass and brings it back, tells her to take a drink so she’ll sober up. She’s ditched her jacket, shirt, and skirt. Down to her little pink bra and the cutest pair of panties Bellamy has ever seen, plain white things, bikini cut, total surprise. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was innocent as a lamb.

He loses the fourth on purpose, takes off his shirt. Wins the fifth and Clarke takes off her bra. He catches sight of her perfect tits, can barely see anything else when she’s got them out. Salivates just looking at them like Pavlov’s fucking pervert.

“Hold on,” she says, climbing clumsily to her feet. “I really have to pee.”

He leans back and waits. Listens as she rattles the knob to the bathroom. The house is ancient. Every door can lock from the inside and outside with an old-timey skeleton key. A skeleton key currently in his pocket. 

She marches back into the living room, confused. “The door is stuck. Can you fix it?”

He plays dumb. “Maybe you should try the downstairs bathroom.”

So she goes downstairs into the rec room, and he listens once more as she tries the door. She runs back upstairs, calling out, “Unlock the door, Bellamy.”

He shuffles the cards idly in his palm, waits for her to come back in the room. 

“So now I’m Bellamy,” he says when she appears in the doorway.

“I’m serious. I really have to go.”

“Maybe you should drink some more water, princess.”

She glances at the glass, then back at him. Realization finally hits her. “Are you  _ punishing  _ me?”

“Ding ding ding.”

“You can’t do this.”

He spreads his legs, grabs himself while letting his gaze trail down her body, her knobby knees clenched tight. “I’m your father. I can do whatever I want.”

“You are  _ not _ my father.” 

“Closest thing you’ve got, honey.”

She sways a little, slurs a little, still drunk, balance caught on the door frame. “I’m telling Mom.”

“I’m sure she’d love to know how you’ve been touching yourself in front of me.”

“She’d never believe you.”

“Want to bank on that? You think she wouldn’t believe her slut daughter begs for her husband’s cock while she’s away?”

“I do not  _ beg _ for your cock.”

“You will.”

She turns on her heel and storms into her room. He looks at the clock. Just past two.

 

* * *

He gets about twenty minutes into a documentary when she comes back out, tries the door again, then returns to the living room. She’s still in her little white panties but she added one of his old painting shirts over top. Her nipples peek through the thin fabric. Both her hands are cupping her crotch, legs clenched together, bouncing.

“I’ve learned my lesson, okay? I won’t tease you anymore. Just unlock the door.”

Bellamy turns up the volume.

“Bellamy,” she says. 

“Not helping your cause, sweetheart.”

“What is it you want?”

He changes the channel to ESPN. 

She circles the coffee table, between his legs, and sinks down to her knees. “You want me to suck you off?” She grabs at his belt buckle, but he swats her hands away.  “What do you want? You want to fuck me? Let me piss and I’ll let you fuck me.”

He keeps his eyes trained on the TV. 

“Tell me, Bellamy. Tell me what you want.”

He makes her wait. A minute passes. Two. Her hands are back on her crotch and she's writhing. When it goes to commercial, he mutes the TV. Leans forward, takes her chin in his hand. “I want you to hold it.”

The words seem to strike her worse than a physical blow. Her lower lip starts to tremble. Denial: “But I can’t. I’m not going to be able to.”

“Not my problem, sweetheart.”

She changes tactics. Anger: “If you don’t let me into the bathroom, I will piss all over this floor.”

“Have fun explaining that to your mother.”

Bargaining: “Please, Daddy.  _ Please.”  _

“Not even an hour and you’re already begging. Pathetic.”

Her eyes start to water. He would think it’s fake except when she fake-cries, her face doesn’t get as red as it is. Sometimes she makes crying look so pretty, but that’s not what he wants. He wants the ugly crying. The rage crying. She’s not there yet. 

Questioning: “Why are you doing this to me?” Her voice cracks, veers into an annoying whine.

“You know why.”

She makes a frustrated sound and leverages her weight on his thighs to stand back up, retreats back to her room. Finally, acceptance.

 

* * *

It’s quarter till now. He’s waiting for her in the kitchen this time, pouring himself a couple fingers of victory whiskey when she returns to him. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Is that what you want? I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything I’ve ever done to you.”

He leans against the counter, takes a sip of whiskey. 

“I’ll do whatever you want, okay,” she continues. “I’ll come home by curfew. I’ll wear clothes around the house. I’ll clean up after myself. I’ll mow the lawn without complaining. I’ll call you whatever you want me to call you. I’ll be good, I promise.”

“Come here, baby.”

She takes a couple steps closer, hesitant toward the kindness in his voice. Puts her hand on his chest, ear against his heart. He can feel her trembling, little hitches in her breath. Must be in pain, poor thing. He brings the glass to her lips, tilts it back, looks into her eyes as she drinks the whole thing. Wouldn’t want her to sober up too quickly. She doesn't even pull a face, probably used to booze that could grease car engines. His whiskey is the good stuff, though. Expensive. Abby bought it for him for their anniversary. 

He sets the empty glass down, puts one hand on her lower back, uses the other to lift her shirt, rub his palm over her stomach. Stretched out. Full. He finds her bladder and presses down a little, watches her mouth fall open in surprise.

“It hurts,” she gasps. She squeezes her eyes shut. Tears clump in her eyelids. One falls down her cheek. “Please, Daddy.” She squirms, rests her forehead on his chest, little broken sob tumbling out of her throat. “It hurts so bad.”

He takes her by the hand and sits on a kitchen chair — plastic, cheap IKEA shit. Guides her over his lap so she’s straddling his thighs. She tucks her face into his neck and takes deep, pained breaths against his skin. He rubs her back, tries to soothe her, imagines she’s drunk and tired and confused, a little delirious. Based on the flush of her cheeks, embarrassed, too. 

He puts two fingers to her chin, tilts it up, kisses the tears off her cheeks — first one, then the other, and comes to rest at her lips. She’s softer than Abby. Sweeter. Her mouth is loose against his, a little sloppy. Her lower lip trembles against his tongue. She sighs a little into his mouth, like she's been wanting this from him, waiting for it. When he pulls away she chases after him.

He lifts up her shirt. Runs his hand over her distended stomach again, presses down. She cries out, grips the back of the chair. Another sob. 

“Daddy, I can’t — “ she starts. Swallows. Here comes the ugly crying. “I can’t hold it anymore.”

“Gotta hold it for Daddy, okay? Hold it as long as you can, baby.” He slips his hand between her legs, feels the soaked cotton, leaked through already. He circles roughly around her clit. 

“I’m trying." She starts whimpering into his neck, tugging at his hair. Wiggling on his lap and rubbing herself on his fingers.

Prideful little slut, torn down into a shaking, filthy mess with the help of a single key. She pulls away from his neck, shifts uncomfortably on his lap, tries to catch her breath. Her thighs are shaking, face pinched in pain and concentration. 

The first hot trickle drips into his hand. She makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and a groan. Seal is broken now.

“Thought I told you to hold it, princess.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t anymore.”

He looks down between them, presses down on her bladder a third time. A wet spot in her underwear grows, absorbs as much as it can take before a steady stream flows out of her. She’s crying in earnest now, humiliated, defeated. She soaks him through, floods his jeans. It pools in the chair and drips onto the tile like the patter of rain.

“That’s right, sweetheart, gonna piss all over Daddy, aren’t you?” He slips his hand into her sodden panties and plays with her clit. She’s still going, but now she’s riding his hand too, confused about it, like she has no control over anything. And she doesn’t. She never will again. Because he’s finally won their stupid little game. 

He pulls her underwear down to her thighs, watches the thin stream of piss pool into the crotch of her panties and dribble through. She’s breathing heavily, moaning in relief on the exhale. 

“Daddy,” she says, "Daddy, please," pleading for something, he’s not sure what, but she’s gone now, lost to wherever she goes when she’s in someone else’s hands.

Finally the stream slows into a trickle, then stops, starts again, a few more drips, and stops for good.

“I’m sorry, Daddy, I'm so sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I couldn’t hold it.”

He takes her by the back of the neck and kisses her again. Palms himself, hard-on straining against wet denim. 

“It’s okay, baby. You held it for a long time. Such a good girl for me.” He kisses the corner of her mouth, her cheek, looks down to see the mess she made. Panties ruined, bottom of her shirt soaked. His entire lap is covered, wide puddle at his feet.

“You tired yet, honey?” he asks.

She offers a small, sleepy nod.

“Okay, we’re gonna get you cleaned up and go to bed.”

 

* * *

He likes her like this — dazed, plaint. Finally unlocks the bathroom door and runs a bath for her. Helps her in and goes to clean everything up. Starts a load of wash. Uses the rec room bathroom to wash himself off in the shower, and returns upstairs to find her dozing in the bathtub under a mountain of bubbles.

She opens her eyes when he enters and smiles a little. “You’re finally naked with me.”

He kneels by the bath and takes a clean washcloth, washes her from head to toe. Holds her hand and rubs the cloth over her arms, neck, down her chest, stomach. Stops between her legs. Lets the rag float away and rubs her with his fingers instead. She’s slick, soaked for him still.

“Gonna be a good girl for Daddy from now on, right?”

She nods, lips slightly parted and eyes closed. He slips two fingers inside her and she lets out a surprised little cry.

He fucks his fingers in and out, bathwater sloshing gently with the movement. “Gonna do everything you’re told?”

Her voice has gotten high, breathy. “Uh huh.”

Doesn’t take long to bring her right to the brink, after everything she’s been through, probably more keyed-up than she’s ever been. With his other hand he tucks her hair behind her ear, watches her face turn red, feels the tension grow. She grips the side of the tub, widens her knees. He’s gonna get his baby girl off, show her the rewards of being good. 

She tilts her head back. “Daddy. Daddy, I’m so close, I’m —”

“I know, sweetheart. Go ahead. Come for Daddy.”

He feels her walls pulse around his fingers. She cries out, kicks her feet and splashes water all over the floor. Curls up, stomach tense, grabs his forearm. Her hips twitch against his hand, forcing him deeper inside. 

“Good girl,” he says, petting her hair. “Easy being good for me, isn’t it?”

She nods, breath heaving, body settling back into the water. Exhausted now, blinking slowly, barely awake.

He unplugs the tub, lets it drain. Stands her up and towels her off, takes her back into her bedroom where she crawls into bed, damp and naked. He moves to leave, but she catches his arm. “You win,” she says tiredly. “Want you to fuck me now.”

“You’re drunk and half-asleep.”

“Don’t care.”

And, well, he can’t say no to that. 

He crawls on top of her, spreads her legs wide, sinks to his stomach between them and laps at her clean fresh cunt. She’s spent, won’t be able to come again, but he wants to taste her, all cherry-sweet. His entire mouth can fit over her tiny pussy. He fucks her with his tongue and she lets out a little whimper. Once she’s wet enough, he gets to his knees, strokes himself to full hardness, looks down at her sleepy face, her eyes closed, relaxed. Resembles a real princess for once.

“Daddy’s gonna fuck you now, baby,” he tells her.

“Okay,” she mutters.

He slaps her pussy with his cock a few times for good measure. Sinks into her in one long, slow stroke. For such a slut, her pussy is achingly tight, so tight a pained look mars the serenity. Her nose wrinkles until he reaches the hilt and then goes back to calm. He should be wearing a condom, doesn’t even know if she’s on birth control, but he doesn’t care. He likes the thought of fucking a baby into his little girl.

He takes her by the back of the knees and folds her in half, starts slow and deep. She moans a little but otherwise seems completely checked out. He moves faster, starts fucking her in earnest now, feels the stirrings of climax pull tight, too quickly. But he’s had days of build-up, tension. He’ll empty himself inside her tonight and tomorrow take it slower. Wake her up with his cock buried deep, still soaked with his come from tonight. If she’s good he’ll fuck her again, let her sit on his face maybe.

The thought brings him rapidly to the edge. She’s completely passed out now, jaw slack, tits bouncing with his thrusts. He stills as deep as he can go. Comes hard, fills her up. Looks down at the place where their bodies are joined. He pulls out slowly and watches a gob of jizz dribble out of her. Squeezes his last few droplets onto her fluttering cunt.

She might not even remember this tomorrow. Maybe she won’t have learned her lesson at all, and he’ll have to punish her again. Put her over his knee for real this time. Leave a few marks.

**Author's Note:**

> Normally I link my shit here but no, there's no way I'm doing that on this fic. If you need me I'll be in my shame corner.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Spoiler Alert](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17665445) by [JenT](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenT/pseuds/JenT)




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